BATMAN: The New Continuity

The shower shut off, and Kevin Soong stepped over the wall of the bathtub, his foot taking a moment to find the bath mat. He found a towel on the rack on the wall to the right of the tub and dried himself off. He always dried his hair last, otherwise loose hairs would get caught on the towel, and eventually end up on his face and arms and shoulders. And, Soong hated having to pick off loose hairs.

Soong often wondered how his colleagues at Major Crimes would react if they discovered how anal-retentive he often was.

When he was dried and dressed, Soong walked out into the kitchen, pulled open his refrigerator, and took out two eggs. He fried them, slowly, at medium heat, and ate them at the kitchen table. He took his time, taking slices of the hard white onto his fork and dipping them into the runny yolk before taking the egg into his mouth. He drank a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk as well before leaving the table.

He put his dishes in the sink, unrinsed. They would stay there until he returned to this place, sometime late tonight. He might wash them then.

Soong pulled his leather jacket off of the hook on the door, put it on both sleeves at once, shrugging it over his shoulders. Then, he left his apartment, locking both deadbolts behind him.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
9:58 a.m.

As was usually the case, everyone else was already here when Soong walked in. He acknowledged everyone with a nod, unzipped the front of his jacket, and sat down at his desk across from Rene� Montoya, his regular partner. Montoya smiled at him, nodded and said "Good morning." At the desk beside Soong sat Ben Cone, his partner on the Harris case.

Cone was on the phone already. From the look of the yellow Post-Its on his desk, he was following up on messages he'd received overnight. Also sitting on top of the desk was a large cardboard box, filled to the top with various personal effects.

Cone hung up the phone. "Good morning," he said to Soong. Cone slid his chair away from the desk and pulled the cardboard box down onto his lap.

"Morning," Soong said. "What's happening? Anything?"

"I've got a trace out on that name the kid at the knife shop gave us. That Trace Corbett. Nothing yet." Cone reached into the box and removed a portrait of a woman, dark-brunette, looking to be in her late-thirties, enclosed in a modest wooden picture frame. Cone sat the frame near the edge of his desk.

"Your wife?" Soong asked, eyeing the picture curiously.

"Her name's Gabrielle, yeah."

"Congratulations."

"Hmm? Why?"

"I mean, you know, for being married."

"Oh . . ."

"I can't ever see myself being married. That's why I said that. I didn't mean to suggest you were a newlywed. You aren't one, are you?"

Cone shook his head, grinning faintly. "No. Seven years."

Lieutenant Kitch leaned out the door of his office. "Ben? Kevin? Can I see you two in here for a few minutes?"

Soong and Cone glanced at each other for a moment, then stood from their respective desks and joined Kitch in his office. "Lieutenant?" Soong asked, although he had a good idea of why they were in here.

Kitch sat down at his desk, yawned, stretched, and regarded his two detectives with lazy eyes. "I've been at this job for no small amount of time, and I still hate it this early in the morning."

Cone couldn't help but yawn himself. "I know what you mean."

"What do we have after Day One, guys?" Kitch asked, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head.

Cone raised his eyebrows, shrugged. "Very little right now, Lieutenant."

Kitch regarded Cone with understated interest. "Elaborate on 'very little', please."

"We're still running a search on a name we got from the pawn shop where the murder weapon was purchased. We might find the guy who bought the knife. That's something."

Kitch nodded, mildly satisfied. "But that's all right now?"

Cone nodded apologetically. "That's all right now."

"Are you looking at any other angles for this? Any other possibilities besides the murder weapon?"

Cone shrugged. "I don't see what other route we could be taking right now. Harvey Harris had no enemies to speak of, lived a very quiet life since his retirement."

"I thought about maybe checking out some of the people Detective Harris put away during his career," Soong said, "but just about everyone dangerous he ever caught is either dead, still in prison, or very, very old. So, I don't think that's really a bankable angle."

Kitch nodded. "I agree." He stood up behind his desk. "Okay, fellas. I just thought I'd see where you stand after yesterday. I expect a call from the Commissioner to see what progress you're making." Kitch let his wrist go limp and waved toward the door with the bag of his fingers. "Thanks."

Soong and Cone turned and started out of the office. Cone walked back into the squad room. Kitch looked up to Soong quickly and called to him in a low voice. "Kevin?"

"Lieutenant?" Soong asked, standing in the doorway.

Kitch motioned for Soong to step back in. "Stick around for a second or two." Soong walked back up to Kitch's desk. "How would you say Ben is taking to Major Crimes? It's only his second day, but . . . does he look to be adjusting?"

"Not really all that much to adjust to," Soong said with a shrug. "He worked okay with me as his partner yesterday, so I guess that was an okay adjustment. The case is a straight-on homicide, and he's used to that already."

"Right," Kitch said, tapping his desk thoughtfully. The look on his face was distant, but he looked up suddenly and regarded Soong brightly. "Thank you, Kevin. I just wanted to get a check up on that as well. You can get back to work."

Soong gave a nod and walked back out into the squad room. Cone was watching him as he walked back to his desk. "So? What'd he say?" Cone asked as soon as Soong had taken his seat.

"He said nothing; he just wanted to know if you were doing okay so far with this unit."

"Ah," Cone said, nodding slowly. "What'd you say, then?"

A smile spread over Soong's face, and he turned away from the other detective to sit straight at his desk. "I told him you had real potential if you could learn to be more patient with witnesses."

?????

Batman's mental timer told him it was 10:46 in the morning. He'd been asleep for hours. Much longer than he usually slept. There was no telling how much he'd been drugged during the night. When he initially opened his eyes, they shut tightly again, instinctively, faced again with the bright spotlight bearing down on him. Everything was as it had been, tied to a chair, stripped of all clothing except the cape and cowl, and a pair of silk boxer shorts.

"About time you woke up." The voice of the Joker, for the second time since Batman had found himself in this place, wherever it was. Batman's eyes darted around quickly, but saw only intense light and total dark. "I was beginning to run out of patience, as impossible as that seems." The Joker was behind him.

Footsteps. The Joker was walking around. A shadow crossed in front of the light, and the light began to dim. Batman blinked rapidly, and soon his eyes were adjusted enough that he could see the room around the light. The Joker was standing to the left of the spotlight, arms folded across his chest. The white-faced madman was eyeing the silk polka-dot boxer shorts Batman currently sported.

"You don't wear silk often, do you?" the Joker asked after he'd initially taken in a breath. Batman gave no response, simply watched his enemy from behind a grim scowl. "You should," the Joker continued, "it suits you so much better than briefs and a jock strap and nose plugs." The Joker smiled wickedly, tilting his head forward and regarding Batman from beneath his brow. "It took me forever to find a gas strong enough to punch through those nose filters of yours. I ended up just mixing a bunch of different stuff together. It worked, obviously."

The Joker took a few steps forward, leaning down and speaking low toward Batman's left ear. "Just between you and me, I spent most of the time I was laying low trying to figure that out." The Joker shrugged after a moment. "Well, that, and putting together this little bonding session for us."

Taking a few steps back again, the Joker once more looked at the silk boxers. He shook his head with disapproval. "That supporter you had on was so tight. You must've had a bitch of a time getting erections."

Smiling wider than ever, the Joker walked around to the other side, putting his arm around Batman's shoulders and whispering near his right ear now. "How long has it been since you had a good fuck? Have you even been with a woman in the last year? As long as we're on the topic, have you been with a man lately? I'm not sure about your preference, considering those inescapably delicious short pants you had your little partner wear for so many years."

The Joker's hand closed into a loose fist, grabbing some of Batman's cape. "Have you fucked even one person since you started putting this on?" The Joker gave two sharp tugs on the cape, then put his finger at the base of the neck and traced it slowly all the way up the side of Batman's head, to the sharp tip of his left cowl ear. Batman remained silent, still.

"Nothing to be ashamed of," the Joker said, as if he truly wished to reassure his captive, "neither have I." The Joker stepped away and walked back around in front of Batman, pushing his hands into the pockets of his purple slacks. "No woman would have me. Too moody." The Joker regarded Batman in silence for a moment, then gave an exaggerated frown. "You don't seem too responsive right now. That's okay. I'm not discouraged. You're probably just tired. I'll leave you alone for a few minutes. In the meantime, now that you've got that damn jock strap off, maybe you'll be able to get a stiffie."

The Joker turned the light back up to full wattage, and Batman's eyes were once again faced with pure light surrounded by pure dark. "Hell, who am I kidding?" the Joker said, his voice beginning to fade. He was leaving the room. "You're probably so sexually repressed, you probably still have to deal with morning wood."

Silence. Batman sat alone again before the light. After five more minutes, the light shut off.

The Apartment of Dick Grayson
10:50 a.m.

The phone was ringing. At least, Dick thought it was. He was still asleep, so he wasn't certain. Something was ringing. He could hear it. It'd happened before, the phone ringing while he was still asleep, but it was still a quirky phenomenon.

Dick opened his eyes slowly. The sounds going on around him came into clarity just as his groggy vision cleared. He was hugging his pillow, lying on top of the covers, in the center of the bed.

The phone was still ringing. Suddenly in a hurry, Dick slid backwards out of bed, his feet reaching blindly for the floor. He stood, turned around toward his bedroom door, and walked out into the kitchen. He picked up the phone, and made no attempt to disguise how tired he was. Honesty was, afterall, the best policy. "Hmm?" he moaned sleepily into the handset.

"Master Dick? My dear boy, were you asleep?" It was Alfred. "I've been calling you for over an hour. It seems the incessant ring of the telephone finally got the better of you." The butler was putting on, acting his usual droll English self. But, there was a concern underlying his tone. It was subtle, something that only Dick or Bruce would've been able to detect, but it was definitely there.

"What's wrong, Alfred?" Dick was wide-awake now, and making no attempt to disguise his concern.

"Master Bruce has not returned from last night. And, I've not heard from him since he ventured out."

Dick's brow was knitted with concern. "Did you call the apartments?"

"There was no answer at any of them."

Dick sighed, massaging his forehead quietly for a moment. "Did you trace his tracking device?"

Alfred said nothing for a moment. "Not as of yet, no, I have not."

"Are you in the cave? Can you run a check on it right now?"

"I am . . . currently descending the stairs. I will trace the beacon in a few moments."

Dick nodded. "Okay. Go for it."

Holding the handset with his left hand, Dick walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open with his right hand, directing a cursory look inside. There was a half-empty half-gallon jug of milk sitting on one of the door shelves. Dick picked it up, tilting his head to hold the phone against his shoulder as he took both hands to hold the jug and unscrew the cap. Dick put his left hand back to the phone, brought the jug to his lips, and took a deep gulp.

There was the sound of the typing of keys from the other end of the phone-line. "I am attempting to pinpoint the location of the tracking beacon," Alfred said offhand as he typed.

"Got a general location yet?" Dick asked just after he'd swallowed the first gulp of milk and just before he took another one.

Dick heard Alfred typing some more. "The signal is originating from the North End of the city. I will try to narrow the location." More typing. "The signal is originating from Eleven-eleven Parker Avenue."

Dick's eyes narrowed as he took another gulp of milk, then replaced the cap. As he was putting the jug back into the refrigerator, he asked "Why does that address sound familiar to me?"

Alfred was quiet for a second, and when he spoke his voice was full with grim reverence. "That is the location of the Monarch Playing Card Company, sir."

Now, Dick was quiet. He stood perfectly still, perfectly silent. Finally, he nodded. He nodded over and over. "Okay. . . . Okay, I'll leave right now and take a ride over there. See if I can find anything."

"Very well," Alfred said, concerned. "You will be careful, then . . ."

"Absolutely. Make sure to let Tim know everything that's going on when he gets back from school, if I'm not back by then."

"That will be five hours from now, Master Dick."

Dick nodded. "I know. I'm hoping to be back by then. But, hey, just in case."

Dick hung up the phone.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Department
11:11 a.m.

"Your father ever beat you when you was little, Hardback?"

Mackenzie Bock looked up at Harvey Bullock, who was leaning on the side of the desk, and shook his head. "No, never. He was always really tired and quiet."

Soong was walking back to his desk from the water cooler. Bullock's eyes followed him for a moment. "Your dad ever knock you around, Soong?"

Soong looked over curiously at his two fellow detectives. "Why are we talking about this?" Soong sat down at his desk and took a small sip from the mug of cold water in his hand. "The answer is no, by the way."

Bullock shook his head and shrugged. "We're working this child homicide from the Eighteenth Precinct. Looks like the father beat his own kid to death."

Kevin Soong wrinkled his brow. "Jesus." He took another sip of water.

Bock slid away from his desk, stretching his legs. "Tell us about it. We finally get this guy's worthless brother on the phone yesterday. He finally calls up the nuts to tell us that his brother told him he killed his son, and now all of a sudden he's not answering his phone again."

"I say we take a detail of cops over to the son of a bitch's apartment and drag him back to the box," Bullock said, folding his arms complacently.

"Gotta wait for the judge, Harv," Bock said in a reminding tone.

Bullock stood straight up and walked back around to sit down at his desk, mumbling something about "red-tape bullshit."

Ben Cone came striding quickly into the squad room, picking his overcoat off the rack as he walked past it. He stopped short, pulling on his coat and looking toward Soong. "Just got the specs back on that name we got from the pawn shop, that Trace Corbett."

Soong stood from his desk and started across to join Cone. "What do we got?"

Cone shook his head as they started toward the hall. "The guy really was from Opal City, and he might've been a tourist here sometime in his life. But not recently; he's been dead for eleven years."

"That'd make it a little difficult for him to commit murder," Soong commented as they walked out into the hall and started down the stairs.

"Can you believe the guts of that little snit at the pawn shop? All the garbage he put us through to get that name?"

Soong shrugged as Cone trotted down several steps ahead of him. "Could be he didn't know about it."

Cone rolled his eyes cynically. "Right. You tell me that little punk didn't love it every second he was screwing around with us."

Monarch Playing Card Company
1111 Parker Avenue
11:22 a.m.

Dick brought his motorcycle to a stop beyond the chainlink fence that enclosed the perimeter around the old Monarch Playing Card complex. The factory had been closed off and abandoned for seven years, the land left undeveloped, the old buildings left to decay at the mercies of time and the elements. Dick dismounted his motorcycle and approached the gate, chained shut.

The gate was chained shut, the chain secured with a padlock. Dick had the padlock picked open in six seconds, pulled open the gate, and stepped inside the perimeter. He stopped a moment once inside, paused to look around, take in this old place, this quiet ruin of the past. To the east was the old employee parking lot, now just a large and empty square of gravel and wild grass. Desolate. Without function.

Directly ahead of Dick was the main building of the old Monarch factory. Most of the windows were either boarded-up or shattered, and those that remained intact were filthy, scratched, or cracked. Just seven years closed, the place already looked ancient, decrepit.

The heavy wooden back door, Dick noticed, was still there. He approached it. It was locked. As he traced his fingers gently down the side of the frame to the metal knob, he noticed a warping in the wood, a dent, scratched paint. Evidence of a break-in, a break-in almost ten years in the past. There was an undeniable sense of wonder, morbid fascination about being here. Dick could feel it all around, and especially now that he was touching the door.

He inserted his lockpick into the lock just above the doorknob and opened it. Dick stepped inside.

Morning sunlight filtered in through the broken or cracked windows provided sporadic-yet-adequate lighting. Dick was standing at the back of the factory, looking ahead at the huge facility that had once handled all stages of production. The walls that had once separated printing from drying, and drying from cutting, and cutting from sorting, and sorting from packaging, were gone. The entire assembly line could be seen, winding across the floor.

Dick climbed an iron flight of stairs up to the old floor manager's office.

An empty desk. A beaten old chair. Barren filing cabinets. And a layer of dust over everything. Undisturbed. Trapped in the past. Dick wondered how long exactly it had been since anyone had set foot in this room. He wondered who the last manager had been. Even more, he wondered about the man who was managing that night almost ten years ago, when a crimson-hooded marauder had led a small group of thieves into this office, hoping to make out big on the heist.

The safe was here, its door ajar about three inches, nestled in the wall near the floor behind the desk. Unable to resist his curiosity, Dick nudged the safe door open further--empty inside, of course.

Remembering in a sudden rush why he had come in the first place, Dick began pulling open the drawers of the desk. All were empty. The same with the filing cabinet. Batman's tracking device wasn't in the office.

Dick left the office and stepped out onto the metal terrace at the top of the steps. He cast his eyes straight across at the high catwalk that ran above the floor, and then down below to the empty chemical waste basin. In a flash of grim inspiration, Dick ran quickly down the stairs and across the factory floor, climbing up another set of steps and stepping onto the catwalk. From there, across to the center of the catwalk, to look down into the drained basin.

Dick leaned over the catwalk, grasping tightly the safety railing, his eyes drawing narrow. There was something stuffed in the opening of the basin's large drain pipe. Something black and amorphous and barely visible. Dick glared down into the basin, just as Batman had almost a decade before, and then turned in a fast motion and started back for the stairs.

There was a narrow-runged access ladder welded to the side of the basin. Dick climbed it and stepped over the side, down into the basin. Kneeling at the opening of the drain pipe, he reached his arm inside and removed the black mass that was Batman's costume, the kevlar/nomex top and bottom, the dark blue gloves and boots, and the yellow utility belt--the tracking beacon would be in there.

Dick bundled up the costume as best he could, tucked it beneath his arm, and climbed back over the side of the basin.

En Route to Furlong's Antiques and Collectibles
11:33 a.m.

Cone sat behind the wheel of his Ciera, Soong next to him, and waited for the light to go green.

It wasn't cooperating.

"It's been red for nearly two minutes," Soong said with irritation. He looked expectantly over at Cone, who merely sighed with annoyance.

"Some lights are set to change every three minutes. Just give it a little more . . ." Cone said calmly. He adjusted his grip around the wheel, grasping it more tightly, and resumed staring at the light.

Soong said nothing, merely folded his arms across his chest and watched the light, his head tilted slightly to the left. Still, the light remained red. Soong looked over to the cars sitting and waiting for the light on 11th Avenue, the street which crossed this one and formed the four-way intersection: those cars were sitting at a red light as well, not moving.

"They've got red over there too," Soong pointed out. "Look, this thing is supposed to be green. I don't know what's happening, but we're not supposed to be sitting here like this."

The cars waiting at the 11th Avenue light started forward into the intersection. Soon, the line of traffic seemed endless. Soong sighed, throwing his head back, tensing the muscles in his face and neck. "Should've just went, Ben. Now what if this light is stuck on red, and their light is stuck on green? We'll never get there."

Cone was about to say something about how the abuse of authority was wrong, no matter how subtle, when the police radio crackled to life. The deep female voice of a dispatcher came across. "M-C Six?"

"M-C Six here," Cone replied, "Cone and Soong here."

"Detectives," the dispatcher continued, "I've got Councilman Arthur Reeves on the phone. He'd like to speak with you."

Soong and Cone looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Cone shrugged, nodding slowly. "Okay. Patch him through."

The flow of traffic on 11th Avenue came to a stop. Soong surmised that their light had gone red again, and tapped Cone on the arm. "Okay, go," he said, pointing first to the stopped cars and then straight ahead. Cone looked, nodded, and let off the brake.

As the car started into the intersection, the radio gave another short burst of static, and the artificially pleasant tones of Arthur Reeves came over the speaker. "Good day, gentlemen," he said cordially.

Cone looked over at Soong, rolled his eyes. "What can we do for you, Mr. Reeves?"

"I was just wondering if I could get an update on your investigation."

"We're just investigating a . . ." Cone's brow furrowed, and he looked uncertainly over at his partner.

". . . a discrepancy," Soong offered, covering.

Cone smiled and nodded appreciatively at Soong. ". . . a discrepancy," Cone said, picking up on his partner's idea, "on some of the information we acquired from a witness."

"Ah," Reeves said, sounding interested, "I see. Can I inquire as to whether or not you've got any suspects yet?"

"No," Cone said flatly.

"'No' to which question, Detective?" Reeves asked, his tone unsure.

Cone couldn't stop himself from smiling. "You only asked me one question, Mr. Reeves."

Reeves was quiet for a moment. "I didn't want this conversation to take on an adversarial mood, Detective."

"No," Cone said, "of course not. I apologize for that."

"Can I ask if you're considering the Batman as a suspect in this case, Detective?"

Cone smiled again. "Yes," he said, fighting to keep the smile from spreading from his lips to the tone of his voice. He succeeded, albeit just barely.

"Very well," Reeves said, sighing wearily. "Detective, are you considering the Batman as a suspect in this case?"

"No," Cone said, "we are not." After a several second pause, Cone's smile widened further, and he added "And, thank you for asking."

"Gentlemen," Reeves said, a new seriousness present in his voice, "I've called for an emergency meeting of the city council for later today. At that meeting, I will be addressing my fellow council members and asking that we formally recommend that the police department consider the Batman as a suspect in this case, and have an arrest warrant issued for him in connection with the murder of Harvey Harris."

"Well," Cone said in an artificially cheerful tone, "good for you."

"It was my hope that, given the evidence linking Batman to this crime, Detectives, I might get your support before I address the council."

"What evidence have you found, Councilman?" Soong asked.

"Harris' murder was first reported by the Batman. The Batman was definitely at the crime scene before anyone else."

"So, councilman," Cone began, "if the mayor had discovered the body, would you be suggesting that we look at her as a suspect? If you had first reported the murder, and all we had linking you to it was circumstantial evidence, would you want us to look hard at you for this?"

The radio was quiet. Reeves said nothing for several seconds. "I take it then that I cannot count on your support."

Furlong's pawn shop was just up ahead. Cone let off the gas, nudged the brake slightly, and slowed up the car. "I regret that I cannot offer my support to you at this time," Cone said.

Soong looked over at his partner and nodded, then rolled his eyes over to the speaker of the police radio. "I think I'll wait for your speech, Mr. Reeves."

"Well," Reeves said with finality, "good-day, Detectives."

"Oh, Councilman?" Cone asked quickly before Reeves was gone.

"Detective?"

"I wonder if it might not be too much trouble for you to mind your own business from now on," Cone said pointedly. Before Reeves could reply, he switched off the radio.

There was a single parking space available in front of Furlong's, forcing Cone to parallel park his Ciera. "I haven't done this in so long . . ." he said as he leaned sideways to see out his back window while he eased the rear of the car into the space, turning the wheel violently to the left as he backed up.

The car slid into the space without incident, and Cone sighed and shook his head. "Too many cars in this city. It's amazing there aren't more accidents than there are, really."

Soong popped open his door and stepped out. Before starting toward the door to Furlong's, he glanced down at the tires, and their distance from the curb. He nodded with satisfaction and looked over at Cone, who had just climbed out from behind the wheel. "Looks like about five inches," Soong informed him. "You would've passed."

Cone shook his head, grinning as he started across toward the front of the pawn shop. "Too many cars in this city . . ."

"Really," Soong said ruefully. "You know what the problem is? All these people that live around here from time to time."

Detectives Soong and Cone walked into Furlong's Antiques and Collectibles to find the place empty. The door was unlocked, and there was no one to be seen inside.

"Go back into that back room and see if you can find anything," Cone told Soong, pointing to the curtained doorway.

Soong nodded and walked through the curtain. The severed human head on the floor next to the filing cabinet was the first thing he saw. It was almost instinctive--he focused on it. The head belonged to Joel, the annoying employee from yesterday. "Ben?!" Soong called, kneeling down next to the severed head, rolling it over cautiously with his right index finger.

Cone stepped quickly through the curtain. He saw Joel's head immediately as well, and stopped where he stood. "Oh my God . . . "

"It's been severed for a long time," Soong observed, pushing on the stiff open jaw. "Big time Rigor."

"All right," Cone began, starting to think, "I'll call for some uniforms to get in here and work this scene. You look around and see if you can find Mr. Furlong's number. I'm sure he'd like to know about this."

"Right," Soong said, standing and wiping off his right index finger furiously on his jeans.

?????

It was just before noon now, and the spotlight was shining in Batman's face again.

Behind him, Batman could hear the sound of plastic on plastic, scratching and clicking. Over and over again. The Joker sighed with frustration. "Oh for Christ's sake . . ." he muttered angrily. Then, there were footsteps. An overhead light came on, illuminating the whole room.

The room was square, Batman could see clearly now, walls approximately twenty-feet wide.

"I don't suppose you know anything about setting up one of these slide machines," the Joker said as the plastic clicking resumed. "Ah-ha!" he exclaimed as the clicking stopped finally. "Got it!" Batman caught the Joker in motion out the corner of his eye, walking around to stand next to the spotlight. The Joker switched off the spotlight and pushed it aside, revealing the bare white wall. "And all without your help," he added proudly as he walked back around behind Batman.

The lights went off again, and for a few moments the room was totally black.

"Please direct your attention to the wall directly in front of you," the Joker said in a light, breezy tone of voice. "The show is about to begin." The white wall was illuminated by a large square of pure light. Batman's jaw tightened. He tried not to think about what was coming, tried not to wonder about what the first of the Joker's slides would be.

The slide carousel clicked, and the frame of white light was replaced by the face of the Joker, photographed from the side in black and white, a serial number printed across the bottom -- a mug shot. "This is the story of two men," the Joker began, in the swelled, self-confident voice of a documentary narrator. "One who was shunned by society just for being different . . ."

The slide carousel clicked again, and the mug shot of the Joker was replaced by a crude ink pen drawing of a man, thin arms and legs, with a ragged cape drawn around his neck and two narrow ears rising up vertical on either side of his head. Scrawled sloppily below the drawing was the word "Batman", with "(artist's rendering, no photo available)" written directly underneath that. ". . . and one who was obviously a disturbed psychopath with absolutely no sense of humor," the Joker continued.

The next image clicked over: a photograph of a newspaper, dated almost ten years ago, with the headline "Vigilante Bat-Man Present At Monarch Break-In" printed boldly across the top. "These two men met up for the first time a few years ago, and it wasn't pretty." The next slide clicked over -- it was from a Polaroid of the Joker. His arms were stretching forward and out of frame in such a way that it was obvious the Joker had taken this picture himself. The image showed him smiling widely, eyebrows raised in a failed attempt to appear suave. "Of course, it turned out okay for our handsome hero," the Joker commented, then clicked over to the next slide.

The next image was of another mug shot, this one of a bleeding, beaten Joker, his right eye swelled shut. "Until he ran into the freak again, that is," the Joker said, his voice full of detached sympathy, as if he were talking about a total stranger.

Batman's eyes were narrowed, his facial muscles tight, his mouth turned slightly downward in a grim scowl. "What's the point to this?" Batman wondered, his voice low, dark.

"Shh!" the Joker urged harshly. "No talking during the presentation! Consider this your first warning. You only get one more."

Batman gritted his teeth.

The next slide clicked over. It was another crude drawing, this time of a smaller person, wearing pointy shoes and a short cape, the middle of his face scrawled black. An arrow pointed to the drawing's skinny legs, with the label "homoerotic short pants". Written beneath this scribble was simply "Robin". The Joker took a moment, cleared his throat. "Faced with such superior competition in the form of our dashing hero, the humorless freak of society decided to combat his nemesis in the only logical way he could -- he took on a teenage sidekick."

Now Batman couldn't help but wonder what the next slide would be. Somewhere deep in his consciousness, someplace in his mind where emotions were still allowed to go unchecked, some hidden locked-up corner of his being, Batman shuddered. But, he kept his eyes focused intently on the slide projection. He kept his composure, his focus.

The Joker clicked over the next slide, and Batman suppressed another shudder. That same tiny, tucked-away part of his mind told him to flinch, to turn away from what he was seeing, but Batman ignored it and stared straight ahead. He was looking at an image of a warehouse, a still capture from a surveillance video. Two people were present in the image: a blonde woman dressed in white, who was running toward a door; and a boy of fourteen, dressed in a tunic and a torn cape, his face bruised and bleeding -- Jason Todd.

"Recognize this scene?" the Joker asked, abandoning the cordial voice of the announcer. "You weren't there, of course. But, I imagine that such a dedicated detective as yourself has spent at least a little time reconstructing the scene." Batman detected another clicking, a smaller, fainter sound. The image didn't change, but a small red dot was present now. A laser pointing device.

The dot moved across the projection to the woman in white, and became a blur as it encircled her over and over again. "This woman, as you know, is the mother of the late Robin the Boy Wonder. She is three seconds from being blown to Hell." The red dot moved over to Robin, encircling him furiously now. "And this fellow leaning up against the box is, of course, your deceased sidekick. He'll be going to Hell with his mother."

The next slide was slightly different from the last. The woman in white was at the door, pulling on the knob, while Robin was looking over at her. "This was snapped at the one-second mark."

Batman looked at the wall in front of him, at the image of Jason, his partner, bleeding, beaten. He didn't even try to look away. He stared at the projection, took it all in, remembered it.

"Haven't you ever wondered what his last seconds on earth were like?" the Joker asked. "Haven't you ever tried to imagine what he was thinking? What do you suppose is on a person's mind in the final moments? Care to hazard a guess?"

Batman said nothing.

"No? Somehow I didn't think you would. . . . Maybe he was thinking about how much he was going to miss leaping around Gotham City in short pants and elf boots. Or, maybe he was thinking about what a sweet, sweet piece of pussy his mother probably was. . . ." The Joker took in a breath, stopped for a moment in silence, anticipation. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, sadder, full of heavily feigned sorrow. "Or, maybe, in those dying moments, he was wondering where his partner was, wondering why his mentor and protector hadn't shown up yet. Maybe he was wondering who was more important than him. Or, maybe he was trying to figure out why his big, invincible partner could run himself ragged trying to protect a whole city full of humanity's dirtiest little secrets, but couldn't quite find the time to come to the aid of the loyal kid sidekick. . . ."

The Joker went to the next slide: static. "The camera stopped transmitting a second later, as you can see. Luckily, the tape was being recorded in the security offices below the building, underground. Clever construction, wouldn't you say?"

Batman said nothing.

The Joker sighed. "Ah, well . . . I suppose we have exploited this particular shortcoming of yours enough, haven't we? What more can be said, really? Your self-centered single-mindedness and self-righteous egotism allowed me to murder your partner and his mother. That pretty much sums it up. Time to move on." The next slide clicked onto the wall. It was a close-up of Barbara Gordon, her face a contorted mask of pain. "Let us begin with a poem, shall we?" the Joker said, a twisted joy in his voice. "I call it 'The Ballad of Barbara Gordon'."

Batman looked tensely at the wall in front of him. Again, he said nothing.

Beneath Wayne Manor
12:17 p.m.

Dick had tried to resist the impulse, but could help slamming the utility belt down onto the workbench in frustration. Behind him, Harold watched with concern, arms folded. The dog, Ace, lay curled up on a far corner. "Dammit . . ." Dick spat out, turning his back on the belt, then walking out from behind the bench and exiting the workshop.

Stepping out into the damp, open space of the Batcave's lower plateau, Dick stretched his arms straight out, tensing his facial muscles for a moment, then relaxing them. He put his hands to his hips, shook his head, ran his hands across his face. "Harold?" he asked, hearing the dwarf's footsteps behind him, "Did you find a homing transmitter in that utility belt?"

Turning to face him, Dick saw Harold shake his head slowly. Dick's face broke into a withering, cynical smile, and he began shaking his head slowly. "See, neither did I . . ."

Dick turned to his right and started toward the elevator. He stepped on, pulled the control lever into the "Up" position, and the platform started up.

Alfred was just reaching the bottom of the stairs when Dick stepped off the elevator onto the upper plateau. "Master Dick, what have you found?" he asked, concern everywhere on his face.

Dick shook his head, still grinning angrily. "Nothing. No homing device, no nothing." Dick stalked past Alfred and started up the staircase. "I've gotta go back to the old card factor. The signal was coming from there; the homing device is still there somewhere."

"Yes, well . . . good luck, then," Alfred said quietly after Dick before starting back toward the stairs himself.

From the middle of the lower plateau, Harold looked on, worried. He felt a warmth caress his fingers and looked down to see Ace eagerly licking his hand. Reaching into his pocket, Harold forced a smile and produced a small biscuit treat for the dog. Ace followed Harold back through the shadows into the workshop, his tail wagging happily all the while.

Furlong's Antiques and Collectibles
4275 82nd Street
12:34 p.m.

Daniel Furlong was fifty-four years old, graying blonde hair starting to recede, wire-frame bifocals omnipresent on his face. His friends often told him he was in excellent shape for his age. He couldn't remember ever being more afraid than when he climbed the front steps and walked into his antique shop.

Cops were everywhere. That's the first thing that he noticed. Blue uniforms filled the front room. Most of them looked to be dusting for prints, brushing ugly black powder over the glass display cases with small brushes. Two of the blue-uniformed officers were pushed gently aside as a bald trenchcoated detective stepped toward Furlong, hand extended. The detective's hand went up to Furlong's shoulder. "Mr. Furlong? Detective Ben Cone, Gotham P-D Major Crimes."

Furlong nodded. "Hello, Detective." He looked around with concern at all the blue uniforms. "They won't . . . be taking anything, will they?" he asked, trying not to look as concerned about this as he actually was.

The detective shook his head. "No, of course not. We have no reason to believe anything in here had a role in your employee's murder."

"No," Furlong said slowly, "of course not." He continued to watch the cops intently. "They will be careful, right? You've told them to be careful?"

The detective pushed Furlong gently past him, leading him toward the back room. "They won't break anything, sir. And if they do, they'll pay for it out of their own pockets. Now let's come back here and have a talk."

They stepped through the curtain into the back room. Already there was a man in his sixties with a Coroner's Office coat on, and an Asian man in his early thirties wearing a leather jacket, who Daniel Furlong presumed was another detective. The Asian man saw Furlong and nodded, turning to face him. "Is this Mr. Furlong?" he asked Detective Cone. "Detective Soong," he said with a small nod of greeting.

The man from the coroner's office stepped aside, and Furlong saw the severed head of Joel Bristol, frozen stiff in death. He heard himself gasp, and felt his hand go to his mouth. "Oh dear . . ." he said, his voice hushed in shock. He kept his hand loosely held over his lips as he stepped back away from the severed head and muttered "Oh, how horrible . . . how horrible . . ." over and over again.

Detective Cone put his hand comfortingly on Furlong's shoulder. "I know it must be a little disturbing to see him like this. But, in addition to talking to you about what happened, I thought it would be easier if you could positively identify who's head this is right here. We couldn't find any family for him, and if you were to not do it here, you'd have to go down to the coroner's office. . . . Is this the head of Joel Bristol, your employee?"

Furlong nodded immediately. "Yes," he said, still nodding, the fingertips of his right hand on his chin, "yes that's him--his . . . that's Joel." Furlong gasped and turned his back to the grisly sight, exhaling a shaky breath. "Could we talk somewhere other than this room, please?" he asked. "This is . . . all quite upsetting."

Cone nodded quietly, looking at his partner and nodding toward the curtained doorway. All three of them stepped back through into the shop. Cone looked around at the uniformed officers still working here and said to them in a commanding but friendly tone, "Go outside and take a break for a few minutes, guys," and adding "I promise we won't touch anything," as they began to file outside.

"Mr. Furlong," Cone said once they were alone, "do you have any idea why Joel was murdered?"

Furlong shook his head emphatically. "No. No, absolutely not."

The other detective, Soong, spoke up. "Mr. Furlong, Joel Bristol's head wasn't just severed -- his jaw was rigged with spring-loaded hinges and there was a small air balloon placed at the back of his mouth."

"Your employee's head was meant to be found by someone," Detective Cone picked up. "When we get that balloon analyzed, I'm betting we'll find traces of some toxic chemical. Whoever found that head got a face full of what may have been poison gas."

"Do you know anyone who might have wanted you to find that head?" Detective Soong asked, crossing his arms.

Again, Furlong shook his head, only slower this time. "No . . . no, of course not."

Detective Cone sighed, and was quiet for a moment. "Mr. Furlong, Detective Soong and I were here just the other day looking for information regarding the recent murder of Harvey Harris. Joel gave us that information. It's a fair certainty that what happened to Joel is related to what we were after."

Furlong looked at the detectives, his eyes wide, confused. "Oh dear . . ."

"Mr. Furlong, the knife that killed Harvey Harris was bought here," Detective Cone said. "And, it was bought with a credit card that belonged to a man who's been dead for eleven years. The card couldn't have been valid." Both detectives looked pointedly at Furlong now. "Someone working here would've had to let that go in order for the killer to buy that knife."

Furlong made sure to make it appear that it took a moment for him to catch on to what the detective's were suggesting. After a second, his hand went back to his mouth, and he spoke in a hushed tone. "You're not suggesting . . . that Joel aided this killer?"

"That's one possibility," Detective Cone said, nodding slowly.

"You have to admit, though," Detective Soong began, "that it would be awfully odd for the killer to behead Joel and rig his head with toxic gas, then put it in a place where you could find it, if only Joel were involved."

Furlong tried his best to look aghast, hurt, offended at the implication. "What is it you're suggesting? That I helped this . . . killer? That I had a hand in this?"

Detective Cone nodded. "Given all we've seen, both Detective Soong and I agree that it's a definite possibility. Now, what we're going to want you to do is get in a car with one of the officers outside, and he'll take you back to our squad room."

"No," Furlong said strongly, shaking his head. "No, absolutely not. I'll not be hauled downtown by police like some criminal."

"Mr. Furlong," Cone began to explain, his tone firm, "we just want to have a talk with you. If you don't come with us by your own volition, then I will place you under arrest as a suspect in relation to the murder of Joel Bristol, and possibly the murder of Harvey Harris. You will be read your rights, handcuffed, stuffed into a cruiser, and believe me, sir, you will feel like a common criminal when that happens."

Furlong suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of fear, of urgency. Abandoning his ignorant subterfuge, he stepped close to Detective Cone, speaking to him in low, worried tones. "Can you put people in protective custody? Can you really do that?"

Cone nodded. "Yes."

"Do it for me. If you promise to protect me, I'll tell you anything you want to know. As long as he doesn't find out."

Cone shot Furlong a curious, confused glance. "As long as 'he' doesn't find out?"

Furlong shook his head. "I can't tell you anymore here. Not until I'm protected."

"All right, all right," Cone said, putting his hand lightly on Furlong's neck and leading him outside. Detective Soong followed.

Monarch Playing Card Company
1111 Parker Avenue
12:40 p.m.

Dick mentally kicked himself as he turned the small, rectangular beacon-locating device over and over in his hand. He hadn't brought it with him earlier today, and had assumed he wouldn't need it when he found Batman's costume. The device, when activated, would trigger the homing beacon to emit a short-range electrical pulse that would cause the locator to beep. The closer the beacon, the stronger the signal; the stronger the signal, the louder the beep.

With his thumb, Dick slid the small switch on the side of the locator to the On-position. It gave off no beeping sound.

Dick proceeded into the main building of the old factory, walking straight to the old vat where he'd found Batman's costume. Once again, Dick climbed over the side of the vat and dropped down to the bottom. He stood next to the opening of the drain pipe, kneeling down, peering inside.

Still grasped firmly in his hand, the beacon locator began to emit a low beeping sound every few seconds. Dick reached his arm further into the drainpipe, the locator in his hand; the beep grew slightly louder.

This drainpipe emptied out into the river -- Dick knew that much. The problem was that he wasn't sure exactly where the contents of the vat would've ended up. If this pipe intersected with any other plumbing underground, there as no telling where everything would eventually end up. The end of the pipe could lie anywhere for miles up or down stream.

So, Dick seized on his only immediate option and began to crawl into the pipe. The circumference of the tunnel was easily large enough to accommodate Dick's size, just as it had accommodated a man dressed in a tuxedo and a crimson helmet almost a decade ago, and swept him out to the river amidst a stream of chemical waste.

At least that's what the Joker had said. Always cryptic about his past, the villain had spoken several times of how Batman had "created" him by dropping him into a vat of chemicals. Most authorities, including Batman, were certain that the Joker had once been the man dubbed "The Red Hood" by the city's media. This knowledge wasn't much help in trying to grasp the Joker, however; the Red Hood's actual identity was never found.

A peculiar feeling threatened to overcome Dick as he crawled through the pipe, listening to the beeping of the locator grow louder and louder. He was taking the same route now as had been taken by a red-hooded thief almost ten years ago, that night's robbery foiled by the interference of the police and a dark-clad vigilante. As he moved hand-over-knee through the pipe, Dick was certain that it was no coincidence.

Having crawled through the pipe for nearly five straight minutes, Dick realized what he may have gotten himself into; yes, this would be the surest way to find the homing beacon, but it could also mean crawling through thousands of feet of underground pipeline. Dick winced, shaking his head at the thought. A moment later, any concerns he had about being stuck in a pipe for hours today were chased away by the rapidly increasing volume of the beacon locator.

Dick continued crawling forward. The pipe began to slope slightly downward for what Dick estimated was just around fifty feet, and then leveled off again. Up ahead, Dick saw finally, was the white glow of daylight. He moved toward it, the beacon locator beeping ever louder as he advanced. Lying on his stomach, Dick slid forward to the edge of the pipe, looking down at the surface of the river, about fifteen feet below. Dick clipped the beacon locator into his right back pants pocket.

Tucking his knees up beneath him, Dick grasped the edge of the pipe and rolled forward, out the end of the pipe. He hung above the river now, his hands still keeping firm hold on the edge of the pipe. Dick strained to look down, searching the surface of the water first, then the shore up and down on both sides. He saw no sign of the homing beacon, which would've been emitting a flashing red light that corresponded to its electronic location pulses.

Continuing to peer down past his feet, Dick detected a subtle change in the surface of the water, a faint blinking, barely visible. A light beneath the water, close to the bank, shallow depth. Dick took three slow, deep breaths, exhaling completely, then took in a fourth breath and held it. He looked down at the river fifteen feet beneath him and released his grip on the edge of the pipe.

The next instant he was in the water, near the middle of the river, thirty-foot depth. He climbed his way through to the top, breaking the surface, and started to paddle toward the bank. In a few seconds, he felt his feet touching the bottom, and he stood up and waded the rest of the way to land. He stepped up onto the packed, damp soil of the riverbank, dripping wet and stinking from the filthy water. Dick turned around immediately and knelt on the wet ground in his wet jeans and began searching the water again for the homing beacon.

He found it after looking intently beneath the surface of the water for nearly a full minute. The beacon was about five feet from the bank, all but its flashing tip buried beneath the murky river bottom. Dick retrieved it and started to climb up the long, sloping riverbank.

?????

The Joker switched off the slide projector and turned on the room's overhead light again. Batman squinted for a moment, but his eyes soon adjusted. Something dark and fluid sailed over Batman's head and landed on the floor in front of him. A pile of black and blue fabric. The Joker walked around in front of Batman and picked up the fabric, holding it out at arm's length, making its actual shape clearer.

It was a replica of one of Batman's suits, sewn together rather sloppily in comparison to the real thing. Batman's eyes narrowed as he studied the costume. Its cape and cowl seemed to be constructed of silk, its bodysuit of lycra. Cheap. Batman couldn't believe that anyone could possibly be convinced by such an obvious imitation.

"A fellow named Daniel Furlong was wearing this when he stabbed Harvey Harris in the chest," the Joker said, eyeing the makeshift costume with an admiring eye. "I should've known not to let him do it, though . . ." he added regretfully, "He forgot to put the note on the blade. I had to put it on myself after the son of a bitch was already dead. Can you imagine how stupid I felt?"

Batman shifted his jaw sideways, loosening the tense muscles in his face. He glared darkly at the Joker. "You forced an innocent man to commit murder."

The Joker rolled his eyes at Batman, then touched his finger sarcastically to the tip of his slender nose. "Nice deduction, World's Greatest Detective." He tossed the homemade Batman costume off to the side, then clasped his hands behind his back and bent over at the waist, putting his face right on level with Batman's. "The last thing Harvey Harris saw in life was Batman, a half-second away from stabbing him through the heart."

The Joker stood up straight again and walked back around behind Batman, putting his arm around the Dark Knight's shoulders and whispering next to his ear. "That makes, what, at least two people whose final moments on earth were profoundly affected by you in a negative way."

"Not true," Batman countered grimly, shortly. "I had nothing to do with either of those deaths. You killed both Robin and Harvey Harris. I had nothing to do with either of them."

"That's right," the Joker said cynically, "keep telling yourself that. You can keep putting up a strong facade for my benefit, keep trying not to show weakness in the face of your captor, but we both know that the guilt and the anger over the death of that little sidecar passenger of yours has been gnawing you up inside for two years. And you're not angry at me; you're--"

"--Aren't I?" Batman asked strongly.

"--you're angry at yourself for not being able to stop me. I know it. I see it. You're not really that hard a guy to figure out, actually." The Joker squeezed Batman around the shoulder, hugging him tightly for an instant, then relaxing. "And yet . . . even after all these years, can you say the same for me? Can you look at the things I've done over the years, what you look at as these horrible things, and see some pattern? Some motive? Some leitmotif? Hmm? Can you, World's Greatest Detective?"

Batman said nothing.

"Do you see?" the Joker asked. "You may not know your enemy . . . but I know mine." The Joker stood and walked back around in front of Batman, crossing his arms, drawing in a thoughtful breath. "And now . . . you've got the late Mr. Harris to brood over, as well. And, of course, the lovely Babs Gordon, whom you allowed to be crippled. Can't forget her, can we?"

Batman said nothing.

The Joker uncrossed his arms, planting his hands onto his hips and leaning over, regarding Batman from the side of his right eye. "Can't forget her, can we?" he repeated forcefully. Batman still refused to respond. The Joker let out an exasperated sigh and walked back behind Batman.

The lights went out, the room was black. Batman heard a doorknob turn, and a door open. "You know," the Joker began bitterly, "after all I've done to put this little meeting together, you could at least give a little something in return."

The door slammed, and Batman was alone again in the darkness.